


Decidedly Crooked

by rabidsamfan



Series: Decidedly So [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: AU, Angst, CROO, Chronology musings, Story related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-18
Updated: 2011-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidsamfan/pseuds/rabidsamfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes has often wondered about Watson, but some of his questions find unexpected answers when Watson's old addiction is troubling him once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decidedly Crooked

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to Janeturenne, who has gently reminded me that she's been watching this story evolve for two years now.

The note was waiting for me at Baker Street.

"Dear Mr. Holmes," it ran, in a hand I'd begun to know. "Would it be possible for you to come round and visit John within the next few days? A change of company would do him good, for I suspect his old trouble is bothering him. As this is the first occasion when the demon appears to have raised its head since our marriage, I would be glad of your experience in confirming my diagnosis, lest my concerns be unfounded. I would not tax him with them in any case unless you see the necessity of it." It was signed, quite formally, as Mrs. J. H. Watson, but in spite of her restraint, I could see by the hastiness of the script and the unblotted spill of ink at the corner that she was genuinely worried.

It wasn't until I had already flung myself into a cab and started towards Paddington that I entertained any reservations. The only case I had in hand at the moment had to do with the death of Colonel James Barclay, and it was not a complicated matter. Hardly the sort of thing worth rousing my chronicler with had he already retired for the night! In truth, I had solved most if not all of the questions, and had only to lay hands upon my best suspect and hear his side of the tale. Worst of all, it was a case which would raise echoes of my Watson's military past, and disturb his sleep, and I had no idea whether or not Mrs. Watson had yet been a witness to one of his nightmares. A foolish consideration, I decided after a moment. The woman had married him -- sooner or later she must inevitably learn of the things which haunted his dreams.

It was Watson's perspicacity which was the true sticking point. For all his reluctance to follow his observations to their logical conclusions, no one could accuse him of being a dolt. Worse, he knew my habits better than any man alive. There was not much hope that he would ascribe my unprecedented visit to chance or whimsy; I indulge neither when I am working on a case. The best explanation I could concoct before the cab drew up to the kerb was that I might have need of Watson's knowledge of Hindustani, should my suspect pretend to be a native of India and fail to admit to a solid grasp of English.

In the event, however, I had no need of that patently thin excuse. Light showed through the sitting room curtains, and I consoled myself that I would not be rousing the household as I rang the bell. When Watson opened the door it was clear in an instant that he was at less than his best. The clock showed it nearly midnight, but he still wore his day's attire, having not even allowed himself the comfort of his smoking jacket despite the ash which proved that he had been resorting to his pipe for some time before my arrival. His handkerchief was living in his sleeve, which was his practice whenever he felt constant need of it, a relic of his Army days. I covered my own uncertainty by rattling off a string of deductions at him, and rather impertinently requested the use of the bachelor rooms he kept available for patients, since it was clear by the coat rack that at the moment they were standing empty.

Rather to my relief Watson acquiesced to my presence for the night without question. Indeed, he brightened at the prospect, and we retired to the sitting room for a quiet pipe together, which gave me time to study him in better light. His color was good, but there were indications that although he'd added still more healthy flesh after I'd seen him over that business with the opera singer and the king of Bohemia, he'd lost the majority of it again recently enough that his wife's clever needle had not yet taken up the slack. There were other indications that his old addiction was making itself felt -- the tic in his left hand and the runny eyes were all too familiar. He was exceptionally weary as well, no doubt because he had been over-exerting himself. At least he'd had the sense to take a hansom for a long round and reduce any strain he might be putting on his leg, despite the expense, as he had taken to doing back when the weather had been poor.

My arrival had distracted him from the compulsions which pestered him, but after a few minutes of silence I could see his restlessness returning, so I told him what I knew about the Barclay matter. I entertained some small notion that he might be able to identify the creature which had run up the Barclay's curtain, but by that point in the narrative he was fighting drowsiness nearly as much as the lure of the drug. Fortunately, by the end of the recitation I had realized that he could serve as an additional witness to Henry Wood's statement, and it was in that function I invited him to accompany me to Aldershot before insisting that we both retire for the night. A night under another roof than my own would be no real hardship, not with Watson standing ready to provide nightshirt and toothbrush, nor would my inability to consult my references for information about the conjurer's creature be any bar to my plans for the next day. As for my friend, I could only hope that a day away from his medicine cabinet would be sufficient to allow the fit of morphine craving to pass.

\---

Sometime after dawn I heard soft voices in the hall, but as my presence was not required I soon dozed off again. I was roused the second time by a tap on the door, heralding the maid with a tray and the news that my bathwater had just begun heating. The excellent coffee was accompanied by a note from Watson (as well as toast and a shirred egg) explaining that he had been called away to a patient, but would be back in plenty of time for our train. I breakfasted accordingly and then repaired to the bathing room where I made myself free with the toiletries and clean shirt which Mrs. Watson had set out for my use. (Watson would hardly have thought to include a choice of scented soaps.) By ten o'clock I was knotting my tie, and I could hear Watson's voice downstairs.

I went down to find my friend and his wife enjoying a pleasant exchange of tales about their morning activities. They let go hands when I entered the room, Watson with mild consternation and Mrs. Watson with perfect equanimity, but did not move apart; I was struck once more by their mutual instinct to seek each other out, which I had first observed on the grounds of Pondicherry Lodge. Mrs. Watson was much as I remembered her from our few encounters since the wedding, although I did not miss the question for me in her eyes. Watson, by the light of day, showed all the more clearly the signs of strain. Had he not immediately expressed his delight at the prospect of accompanying me to Aldershot I might have made mention of the shadows under his eyes and recommended a nap. I anticipated no danger, else I would have delayed until he had fortified himself with more than coffee, but Watson was too restless to brook any obstacle to our expedition. I knew from my own experience that there is a state in which sleep is impossible, and so contented myself with observing that he could, for once, save himself the effort of carrying his medical kit, as he would be practicing his other profession as writer for the day. After a moment's hesitation, he agreed, and then got to his feet, saying he had a few matters to see to before our departure.

Whilst Watson stepped over to his neighbor's to arrange that his patients would not go without medical advice, I had a word with Mrs. Watson. I assured her that her suspicions had indeed been correct, but that the worst had not by any means come to the worst; I had every expectation that a diversion would allow the trouble to subside.

"A day away from London will do him good," she agreed. "I've been trying to convince him to take time for himself, but he says he must build up the practice while he is still new to it. Yet he has been happier this morning than I have seen him for several days. I think the chance to accompany you upon a case is the one pleasure he cannot resist."

"Then I shall have to find opportunities to take him with me more often," I said. It would be a simple enough matter to arrange, and Watson's company would be as much reward as the bright smile the former Miss Morstan bestowed upon me. "Although you mustn't worry overmuch. Despite this setback he looks much sturdier than he was last summer."

She smiled with honest pride. "That reminds me -- I've a luncheon packed for you," she said, fetching it from the sideboard. "More than he'll want, I'm sure, but if you keep putting sandwiches under his hand while he's reading his newspaper he'll make a proper meal of them."

"I shall remember that," I told her as I accepted the charge. It was a clever ruse, and one which would save me the trouble of courting hypocrisy by goading Watson into eating. I have little enough appetite when I am working on a case, and well he knows it.

\---

He could not help but notice the bulky packet which his wife pressed upon me, however, for it shared our seat in the cab to Waterloo. And yet he made no comment upon it until we were safely ensconced in a compartment on the train to Aldershot. "I recognize that cloth," he said gruffly, after the conductor had punched our tickets and departed. "Mary's worried, isn't she?"

I had made myself busy sorting through the newspapers I had acquired from the vendors on the platform, and did not meet his eye. "I believe that is one of the privileges of marriage."

"Did she send for you?" The blunt question held a note of unmistakable pain, and I abandoned my pretense at disinterest. A glance told me that Watson was as taut as a violin string.

"Yes," I told him, and then for some unfathomable reason added, "But I should have come by in any case."

He blinked, and then blinked again. He had not expected that. "Whatever for?" He exclaimed, and then scowled. "Don't tell me you've got Jack Wiggins still reporting to you after all this time. He's a bit old to be an Irregular."

"The only Wiggins lad I've spoken to of late is his youngest brother," I countered. It had never occurred to me that I might have my Baker Street boys keep a friendly eye on Watson, although I meant to amend that omission. Benton would be the best choice, given that the Watsons had employed his sister as a slavey after their first choice of servant had proven careless of her duties. Sarah Benton was more likely to have chances to observe Mrs. Watson than the doctor, but that might be enough, given her mistress's sharp eye and quick heart. Still, the fate of my original lieutenant seemed a safer topic at the moment than Mary Watson's concerns, and, after all, it was my turn to ask a question. "The last I heard of Wiggins the elder he was working at Harrison's stable. Did you see him in your professional capacity?"

"Just last week," Watson said. He leaned back against the bench and his grip on his walking stick eased, allowing his knuckles to regain their normal color. A corner of his mouth turned up at the memory. "A broken toe. Said he'd come to me because I wouldn't think him an odd duck for going barefoot around draft horses for the sake of not getting his new boots mucky. I gave him a proper scold and an old pair of mine to wear when he's cleaning stalls."

I laughed. That was my Watson, indeed! But knowing his tenacity I chose to forestall any other unreasonable conclusions on his part by quickly returning to our original topic. "As for my visit, it was prompted in no small part by my reluctance to discover what new indignities Mrs. Turner can visit upon the common kipper."

He smiled sympathetically, "Mrs. Hudson is off visiting her daughter again?"

"Her son, whose wife shall have added yet another grandchild to her happiness by the end of the week if all goes well. She means to stay with them for a month and Mrs. Turner is standing in loco Vestae in the interim." The tic in Watson's hand and slight tendency to flinch had not yet completely abated, and I hastened to elaborate. "Judging from her choice of menus I would say that she is pursuing the local fishmonger with a fervor that would alarm a less phlegmatic man." I regaled him then with descriptions not only of several piscine breakfasts, but also of the most recent encounters I had observed between my temporary housekeeper and the object of her affections, until at last the steadiness of his extremities confirmed that he was sufficiently distracted. At that point I directed his attention to a story in the _Standard_ concerning a dispute over fishing rights in the Baltic and once he was absorbed in the news of the day I broached the packet, muttering gratitude that it appeared to be blessedly bereft of mackerel.

Despite his wife's stratagem, Watson had managed only half his second sandwich by the time we reached Aldershot. They were not large sandwiches -- I myself had consumed three -- but it was clear to me that Watson had little appetite for more. I gave the rest of the luncheon packet to young Simpson along with his pay and train fare back to Baker Street. The child was tipsy with lack of sleep, for he had never once dropped his watch over Henry Wood during the night, but he at once sprang to attention like the staunch Irregular he was and asked where the package was to be delivered. I told him that he need only return the cloth to Watson's Paddington address, and might keep the bounty within as a reward for his diligence. The boy immediately investigated the contents, squeaked with delight, and scampered off in the direction of the station, startling a burst of laughter from Watson.

As we waited for the maid who answered the door to take my card up to our quarry, I cast a glance over my companion and found him to be in much the same state of pleasurable anticipation as I was myself. The years had fallen from him; were it not for the slight unevenness of his stance, due to the unfortunate wound he had taken the year before, he might be the same young veteran who had run the course of so many chases with me during our first few years at Baker Street. Had our errand been less serious, no doubt, we should have both been unable to keep our composures. Indeed, it was only by concentrating my attention upon the matter at hand that I was able to resist the temptation of reminding Watson of the time when we had gone to confront a suspicious character and ended up doused in treacle. (One of my sweeter failures.)

Fortunately, Henry Wood proved more than willing to tell his tale. It was a complicated history, and one which might have given cause for skepticism had not the truth of it been written on the man's very bones. Certainly he had been cruelly used; whether or not that absolved him of Colonel Barclay's death I was not entirely convinced. That he would do anything to protect Mrs. Barclay from prosecution, however, was unequivocal. In light of my discoveries about the otherwise inexplicable discrepancies in Colonel Barclay's character, I was willing to give Wood the benefit of the doubt. It was not impossible that a man in a fit of guilt and terror might thrash around so violently that his legs would end up on the arm of the settee, and the fender might account for the head injury. The relatively small bloodstain proved that the cut had been received either immediately pre- or post- mortem in any case, and my initial examination of the stick which Wood had left behind at the fatal confrontation had yielded no overt sign of hair or blood.

Watson, it was clear, entertained no reservations. He took his notes with his customary silence, and only found his voice when the opportunity arose to identify Wood's mammalian companion as a mongoose*. That brought him to Wood's attention, and I believe the former corporal must have recognized the officer that Watson had once been, for he straightened his back as much as it was possible and answered with a certain deference which had been lacking in his manner before. It was Watson he asked if there were any other points to be considered, and Watson who told him that we might have to apply to him if Mrs. Barclay stood in danger. I believe my friend was on the point of asking another question, but at that juncture I noticed Major Murphy down on the road and I intervened.

Major Murphy had news from the inquest; the medical evidence indicated apoplexy. I was glad to hear it, for my sympathies were entirely with Wood and Mrs. Barclay. An end to the official investigation alleviated any need for me to point out the evidence which would have brought Wood's testimony into the light of day whilst the Colonel's friends would still have felt obligated to vindicate a dead man's honor. I refused payment, other than reimbursement for my expenses, and Watson and I started for the station, discussing the case. But my satisfaction at the resolution of the Barclay matter was soon marred by Watson's increasing preoccupation.

Rather than return directly to the platform with its inevitable plethora of men in uniform and inquisitive idlers, I decided to revisit a row of benches which the kindly owners of the Manor had set in a copse near the edge of their estate for the use of the public, not five minutes' walk from the railway line. An elderly sergeant dozed in the dappled sunlight a few benches along, and a few small red squirrels ventured out to see if we would distribute peanuts, but otherwise we had the spot to ourselves. "We've the better part of an hour yet to while away before the next train to London," I told Watson as I took his elbow to steer him toward the bench on the end. "This is as pleasant a place as any to do so."

His arm was rigid, his blank expression betraying the depth of his distraction. He took his place on the bench absently, glancing around the peaceful green grove with eyes that did not see. "An hour?" he echoed, and drew his watch from his pocket. He did not open it, but began to rub his thumb across the case, as if to clean away some non-existent stain. I noticed at once that it was his father's gold watch and not the silver Ingersoll which had been his constant companion during the first years of our acquaintance. I discarded the notion that he was suffering from a resurgence of the morphine craving; he was not restless, nor did he seem to need his handkerchief. But there was something troubling him. I studied him as unobtrusively as I could, piecing together my observations and discarding miscellanea. The watch seemed to be a critical element, or rather the inscription upon the watchcase. H.W., I remembered, from the day upon which we had first met Watson's future wife. The same as the initials which had been patterned in brass studs across the top of the small leatherbound trunk in Henry Wood's rooms.

The name Henry is a common one. Nearly as common as John. I'd known a dozen Henrys in my school days, and had envied them the gift of unimaginative parents. It was not so great a leap to the probability that the Watsons _mere et pere_ had chosen an appellation for their first son which was as common as the name they had chosen for his younger brother. And from there it was but a step to the conclusion that _my_ Watson had been most uncomfortably reminded of his family by the coincidence of name and initials.

But what to do about it? Here was shaky ground. Without the flush of cocaine to render me tactless, I could not help but remember how distraught Watson had become over the deductions I had once made from the same watch he now held in his hand.

I found myself regretting the absence of Mary Watson. She had rights in Watson's family, and could have pierced his reticence without offense. Moreover, I thought, remembering the way the two of them had been holding hands just that morning, she could offer him the refuge of her physical presence without breaching his constraint. I had seen her do so, straightening his lapels, clasping his hands for the merest second in her own, pushing his hair back from his forehead as if he were a child heading off to school. With a dozen gentle touches she would draw him back to the world. But I was not his mother, nor his wife, nor even his landlady, and those maneuvers were not available to me. I had only words with which to penetrate Watson's isolation and divert him from the walls which he was building in his mind. Mary could give him her love.

 _Ah._

"I think this tale may have a happy ending when you add it to your collection, Watson," I said with a calculated brightness. I am not a romantic, but my friend is, and the prospect of a marriage between two unlikely persons has delighted him many a time. "Once Mrs. Barclay has set aside her mourning, that is."

"Oh, God, I hope not," Watson groaned.

"Whyever not?" I said, somewhat sharply, as I disliked my failure to correctly anticipate his reaction. "Wood has waited thirty years for her!"

"Wood has more sense than to tie the woman he loves to an ill-tempered, impoverished, impotent, _cripple!_ " Watson cried, flinging away all that he held. His stick landed harmlessly in the grass, but he had gestured with such force that the fob broke and both chain and watch landed disastrously upon the hard-packed dirt of the path. The sound of the crystal shattering sent the squirrels back to their trees, although Watson seemed unaware of it. He had curled down to bury his face in his hands, his posture so like Henry Wood's distorted form that for a moment I could do nothing but stare.

The elderly sergeant came to his feet with a speed that belied his age and stared as well, but he recovered himself quickly and advanced upon us with kindly concern writ large upon his face. I watched his approach with an admixture of relief and trepidation. Surely a man of his years and station would be experienced in how best to deal with displays of emotion! And yet, if I ceded my place by Watson's side, would it not be a repeat of that wretched hut in Yorkshire, when all I could do was nurse my own brokenness while a stranger saw to my friend's comfort?

It would not do.

I fumbled a coin from my pocket and held it out. "Would you be kind enough to fetch a tot of brandy and something to eat for my friend?"

"I'd be glad to, sir," the man said, taking the crown and saluting before he backed away.

I dismissed him from my thoughts, concentrating instead upon the techniques which I had painstakingly assembled for use upon hysterical clients, praying that Watson would not recognize his own contributions to my _repertoire_. I decided to interleave those decidedly masculine touches which I had observed Murray employing during the hideous purgatory of Watson's delirium last May. A hand upon the shoulder -- not the left, but the right, in Watson's case -- light pressure and a steady small circular motion, not the patting a nurse uses on a wailing infant. Beneath my fingers I could feel the tremors of suppressed sobs, upheavals Watson could no more control than a man can turn aside an earthquake from his home. He did not flinch away, which relieved my first concern that my presence would be rejected outright, for pride and uncertainty had made him chary of pity for as long as I had known him. He'd had even more cause to be so after the catastrophe upon the river which had robbed him of both memory and a sound left leg, and I had spent an exhausting summer navigating between concern for his recovery and the tender scars upon his dignity. It had been only near the end of his tenure at Baker Street that he had begun to grant me once more that unthinking camaraderie which had been his most notable contribution to our friendship.

I noted with gratitude that my stomach had unclenched somewhat, and then found myself impatient with myself for failing to concentrate first upon my friend's discomfort and not my own. I disciplined my thoughts accordingly, and considered what next I should do. It took no great skill at deduction to realize that Watson's outburst had referred to his own circumstances and not Henry Wood's. But which of the calumnies my friend had heaped upon his own head could I with any degree of confidence address? I had to say _something_. The ritual demanded it.

"You're not a cripple, Watson," I offered.

He made an odd noise and curled into an even smaller knot.

I persisted. "Your leg pains you at times, of course, but you move with the same agility and speed as any other man when the necessity arises. And you have improved greatly over this past year." I could think of no other point which he would take as true, so I moved hastily to the next topic. "As for ill-tempered -- that's nonsense. If you are occasionally quick to take umbrage, you are equally quick to cool. And your stock of patience far exceeds that of most men of my acquaintance." It certainly exceeded mine. I reminded myself that drumming my fingers on his shoulder would not be welcomed and forced the motion to my free hand instead. Doing two entirely different things with each hand took a moment of concentration, but it was no more difficult than playing a violin. Having established an acceptable rhythm I turned my attention back to Watson. To address his financial condition would be to stumble up against his blasted pride, even though I was in comfortable enough circumstances at the moment to extend a loan.

That left the charge of impotence.

I ran through my limited acquaintance of newlyweds and first-born children and came to the conclusion that Watson had some cause for his concern. But the lack of any indication of a pregnancy could indicate difficulties with either parent. Given Watson's initial delight in the married state it was unlikely that his mechanism was entirely non-functional; and Mary had not been a young bride. "If your wife has not yet quickened, the reason may be intrinsic to her," I began, meaning to articulate the possibilities, but this at least made Watson uncurl enough to speak.

"I do have a microscope, Holmes!" he cried and glared at me for a moment with reddened eyes before burying his face again.

I felt my own face heating. It was one thing to speculate, however idly, on the reaction of Leeuwenhoek's wife when that pioneer of microscopic studies rose from the conjugal bed to study his own ejaculate while it was still fresh**, but another thing entirely to consider the question in terms of a living, breathing woman whom I had already agreed to face over a dinner table that evening. Surely Watson had not been so indiscreet! His usual inclination was to reticence, as I well knew, or I would not be foundering. And there had been nothing in Mary Watson's manner or words to suggest that she was aware of any difficulty except the obvious return of Watson's cravings for morphine. But had the one problem been triggered by the other, and then exacerbated by overwork and a distinct lack of sleep?

With a leap of logic I suddenly understood precisely why Watson had been lingering downstairs until his wife was safely slumbering in their bed. He had not shared his researches with her, had not shared them with _anyone_ until I had blundered my way into his most private affairs. But he had not moved away from my hand, nor begun to pace as he does when his anger overrides all else. And he had shouted at the others – at Ben in that hut, and at Murray, too. He was listening to me, however useless I felt my attempts at consolation, and I had no idea in the world what to say.

I took refuge in inanity. "So, having conducted your seminal researches you have taken to hypocrisy."

 _That_ straightened him. He sputtered incoherently, unable to decide whether to be more appalled by the pun or outraged by the accusation. "Seminal...hypocrisy... Holmes!"

I did my best to look unmoved. "I could make a cruder joke," I assured him as I tugged my handkerchief free of my pocket. "But I'm afraid that it would lack both the pungency and the originality of anything Murray would say to distract you from your self-pity." Then I frowned, realizing that given my lack of previous experimentation my calculations might be off concerning his state of distress. "Or is it too early yet in the process for you to require a distraction?"

Watson accepted the handkerchief and passed it over his face before emerging with something like curiosity glimmering faintly in his red-rimmed eyes. "' _Require_ a distraction'?" he echoed. "Holmes, what process are you talking about?"

My face grew warmer still, and I removed my hand from his shoulder hastily. "The process of... comfort." He clearly did not understand that statement so I was forced to expand upon it. "When Murray was at Baker Street, last year, when you were ill, I studied his methods."

Still no comprehension. Somehow I managed to keep my seat, but I steepled my fingers and tapped them against my lips, staring off into the middle distance as I found words. "When a client requires a display of sympathetic understanding, a ... pretense... of that emotion is, under most circumstances, perfectly adequate. But you are not a client." I looked to see if his confusion had eased and was glad to note that it had. "I shouldn't like to get it wrong."

He smiled, albeit sadly. "You've had practice enough. All those nights I ruined your sleep with my nightmares."

I dismissed them as a consideration. Truth be told, Watson's midnight cries had startled Mrs. Hudson's serving girls in their attics more than they had me. I had taken to interrupting his nightmares as much for the sake of preventing them from coming down and making a nuisance of themselves as to forestall Watson's headaches and morphine cravings the next day. "My habits are hardly regular to begin with," I pointed out to him now. "And on the occasions when I did feel it necessary to intervene I did nothing more than to rouse you to awareness, administer a mild sedative, and then distract you until you had fallen asleep once more."

He tipped his head to one side, studying me with nascent interest. "And that wasn't comfort?"

I shrugged. "It was the practical thing to do." I'd only shaken his shoulder the once, in the very earliest days of our acquaintance, having forgotten in my own sleep-befogged state that it was his injured side. He'd been glad to be wakened, all the same, and had never failed to thank me for calling him awake on subsequent occasions, invariably apologizing for disaccomodating me. And I had never truly minded the interruptions to my slumber. Half the time I'd been awake in any case. "You must have observed that I took every advantage of the opportunities presented me. Mrs. Hudson could hardly complain about my practicing the violin in at three in the morning when I did so for reasons which were so clearly altruistic."

His smile widened, although it did not reach his eyes. "I'm afraid I'm not very observant when I'm in this condition," he said shakily. "I was just glad of the music."

"Yes, well, I am singularly unequipped to provide it at the moment." A thought occurred to me. "Does Mrs. Watson play the violin?"

He shook his head. "The pianoforte. If we could afford one." He sighed, but made no indication that he would succumb to a fresh round of tears. "Not that there's much chance of that. Mary has offered to sell one of the pearls, but I hate to encroach on what little fortune is hers for less than an emergency."

"Do you need the money?"

"Yes, unfortunately. I sadly underestimated our expenses when I bought the practice."

"And yet the practice is thriving," I said, hoping to elicit more data from him. "Every time I have seen you of late it has been clear that you have had a busy day."

"Yes, but most of my clients are," Watson grimaced as he searched for the right words, "not very _prompt_ about paying their fees. If they can afford them at all. If it weren't for Thaddeus Sholto's imagination I wouldn't have been able to pay last quarter's bills." Watson leaned back against the bench. "And I feel like such a charlatan taking the man's money I'm not sure it's worth it."

I understood Watson's hesitation, although I thought he had misread his patient. "Even imaginary ills require that something be done to right them," I said. "It would be less than kind of you to abandon him to his self-recriminations."

"What self-recriminations?" Watson asked, all too ready to be diverted from his own.

I shifted happily into the role of lecturer. "Miss Morstan he could compensate in some small way for her loss -- he could not, and can not, do the same for the men from whom his father wrested away the treasure in the first place. Now that the true story has been told, he knows that they are thieves and murderers, but I do not doubt that he admires their loyalty to each other. All his wealth, all his fortune, is based on sand instead of honest effort, and, not having ever been taught how to make a living by more decent means, he cannot give it up. Something else must pay the price for his good luck, and in his case, it is his health."

"I'm not following you, Holmes," Watson admitted, so I expanded on my deductions.

"My dear Watson, Thaddeus Sholto is one of those rare men who is, by nature, far more honorable than his antecedents. His father's perfidy in the matter of the treasure, and worse, in the matter of Major Morstan's death, appalled him. And yet his brother -- an identical twin in appearance -- was all too willing to follow in his father's footsteps. For Thaddeus Sholto to move away from his home, and to surround himself with the illusion of India, he must have felt compelled to separate himself as much as possible from a home in which he felt out of place. Now that he is master of Pondicherry Lodge, it is no wonder that he feels guilt and confusion over what he failed to do whilst his brother was still alive."

Watson shook his head, ever so slightly, and now it was his gaze which set upon the middle distance. "He shouldn't blame himself. A childhood spent together leaves one very little authority."

I found myself reduced to making a quite undignified noise. "I wish you'd tell Mycroft that!"

To my delight, Watson laughed. It was not a long laugh, nor a loud one, but when he looked again to me I could see that it had done him good. "I'd forgotten that you had brother troubles too," he confessed. "It can't have been easy growing up in Mycroft's shadow."

"It was the simplest matter in the world," I said airily. "It was so very large, you see." It would have been easy, then, to turn our conversation to lighter matters, but even as I felt tempted to do so, I knew that it would be unfair to allow Watson to avoid the questions which would only come back to haunt him again in the night. Or so I told myself. In truth, I knew myself to be equally entranced by the possibility of having my curiosity concerning Watson's family finally satisfied. It must be confessed that I felt a certain thrill as I adopted my most neutral tone and went on, "It was only once he'd gone away to school that I ever knew what it meant to be without him."

I was inviting a confidence and Watson knew it. He wavered for a moment, and rubbed his hands together, but only for a moment; the honesty and courage which are so essential to his nature ensured me an answer.

"Henry ran away when he was thirteen years old, whilst my family was living in Australia," he said. "We thought he'd died. And for all that I worshipped him before that day, there have been times in my life when I wished to God he had done."

I ruthlessly suppressed any hint of satisfaction. "Was he much older than you?"

"Five years." Watson's brief smile was a sad one. "Enough older to always be stronger and faster and better at everything than I was. He had no patience with school, but in his own way he was very clever; he could build machines that actually worked, at least until he tried to improve them. And he had the most outrageous ways of getting into trouble of any boy in Ballarat. Father used to boast about them to the miners, I know, because I heard him doing it once. But they were too much alike, Father and he. They had the most spectacular arguments. And then one day, Henry's carelessness left me half-drowned at the bottom of a flooded mine. It was as much my fault as Henry's -- I should have known better than to try to follow -- and Henry did run for help, once he realized that I truly was in danger."

I let my eyes fall closed for a moment, as I would when listening to client, imagination painting for me the details which Watson was not sharing. The two boys braving the pitch-black depths for the thrill of it, with stubs of candles instead of proper lanterns. The elder boy, no doubt, teasing the younger by traversing some uncertain bridge. The younger boy attempting to do the same, losing his balance and falling. He'd have lost any light he was carrying, my Watson, and Henry, for speed's sake, must have taken his own candle with him to the surface, leaving his brother in darkness.

"By the time they came and found me I was compromised," Watson said. "I'd never been sick a day in my life before that, but I was sick enough after. Pneumonia. I don't remember much of it -- you know what I'm like when I've taken a fever -- but I remember Father telling Henry that if I died he would never forgive him. And in the morning Henry was gone."

"How long did they hunt for him?" I asked, studying my friend through my lashes, and noting that for all that his voice was rough with emotion, his eyes were dry. This was an old grief indeed.

"Nearly a month. And then some bones were found in the hills, just past where one of the reports had placed him. They were brought back in a box." Watson measured the size of it with his hands, telling me without words that the skeleton had been far from complete. "I think that's when Mother's heart broke. At the funeral. She took me home that night and packed my things into a trunk and by morning we were on a carriage to the coast. Next thing I knew I was on a ship bound for school here in England. I never saw her again. For that matter I didn't see Father for the next ten years. Or my sisters."

" _Sisters_?" I couldn't help but echo.

"Three," he answered the unspoken question. "Hetty is in America, most likely, unless her husband has heard of yet another motherlode to chase after elsewhere. Anne was in South Africa, last I ever heard, doing her best to atone for the family sins by singing hymns at drunkards. And Cecy... Cecy died." He cut off that part of the story abruptly, his fist clenched tight upon one knee. "They know where I am, should they ever care to write. Henry saw to that much, at least."

"Why shouldn't they write?" I wondered.

Watson laughed, bitterly. "I'm the black sheep of the family, Holmes. Henry saw to that, too. He turned up at Father's funeral, sweet-talked the girls -- and me -- into thinking him some kind of hero for all his adventures. And once he was settled back into the family he proceeded to diddle me out of my place with my fiancee, entangle the estate in a business venture to the point where there was no money available to set me up in practice, and then spend no small amount of time and effort convincing me that I should go into the Army and have a few adventures of my own. And no sooner was I out of England than he dragged my name through the mud with all my friends, telling them that I was responsible for Helen's pregnancy and had run away to avoid her."

It was not easy to withhold a comment. It would hardly be tactful to ask my one and only friend if the possibility existed that the charges weren't unfounded. Still, true or not, I was certain that my Watson would never have knowingly abandoned a child of his own indiscretions. Had Henry Watson still been among the living I believe I would have taken up a horsewhip and gone in search of him, to teach him better manners. "And what did the lady have to say?"

Watson shook his head. "I don't know. She vanished soon after her maid babbled the news to half creation. Henry claimed that he'd given her a purse full of guineas for my sake, and that he paid an enormous sum to keep the scandal out of the newspapers, but that might have been a taradiddle. Knowing Henry it's just as likely that he lost the money to speculating in mine shares. In any case, Henry used my disgrace as an excuse to sell off the house and take the girls with him to South Africa, where what was left of the family fortune would go further. Hetty met her miner there and married him whilst I was in Afghanistan. I daresay she was glad to get away. Henry was as unpredictable as Father when he was in his cups." He tugged his handkerchief free of his sleeve, but held it, unused, in his fist as he went on.

"I was never told that Helen had run away, I just thought she'd forgotten me. And I didn't know why my letters to friends stopped being answered until a few days before I was shot. That's when Anne's letter came, telling me that Cecy had a cancer, and it was my fault for making them all move to Capetown. That I'd disgraced the family, and she, and Hetty, and Henry would thank me to remember that I was as dead to them as Cecy soon would be." Watson fell silent, looking down at the broken watch without seeing it.

"Good God," I murmured. Imagination could not help but paint for me a picture of Watson, his uniform sweat-soaked by the heat of the Afghani summer, the sounds and smells of a hostile land all around him, and the letter depriving him of every reason to come home safe from battle crumpled in his hands. Murray had been wrong. It wasn't the knowledge of his _father's_ death which Watson had carried with him into battle at Maiwand; it was his own.

"I should have looked for Helen as soon as I got back to England, but I didn't," Watson went on, turning at last to face me. "You remember how wretched I was. How useless. And besides, it was easy to believe that she thought the worst of me. We'd ... explored... a bit, during our engagement, although never so carelessly as to compromise her. But Henry had exotic taste in liquor. He threw several parties whilst he was in London, one in particular, where the prize of the night was a dozen bottles of opium-laced _ouzo._ "

"Ah," I said, although I didn't quite see. "I'm surprised that you thought that sort of party was appropriate for your fiancee. And that her parents allowed her to attend."

"Oh, by that point she was Henry's fiancee, not mine," Watson said, not quite diffidently. "Once the inheritance fell into his hands, the Hathaway's did everything they could think of to transfer Helen's affections from the penniless younger son to the romantic returned heir. And I'm ashamed to say that I abetted them, for I couldn't see how I could afford to support a wife on Army pay. She accepted Henry's proposal -- how could she not, with all of us telling her that he was the better choice? And as his fiancee, of course she was allowed to attend any party he cared to sponsor." He was rubbing at his left shoulder now, as he so often did when he reminisced about his military days. "I'd just finished my course at Netley and got my commission, so I was in full formal uniform and very dashing, or so I was told. It didn't take five minutes to fill my dance card. I didn't ask Helen, not with Henry's ring on her finger, but she traded places with Rebecca Moncrieff for one of the polkas."

"And the polka made you thirsty, and the _ouzo_ was there, waiting to be imbibed," I concluded. "So the rest of that evening is lost to you.

"Yes. It was the last time I ever saw her. Not a week later I was aboard ship for India." Watson sighed and leaned heavily against the back of the bench, closing his eyes and turning his face up towards the sky. "I don't... I _used not to_ think... that I went beyond the bounds with Helen that night. That any memories I have of doing so are fantasies from morphine dreams. But there's so much I don't remember now. And that journal is gone forever. The books I took with me to Afghanistan were looted during the siege and for all I know they were used to start fires."

I, at least, was certain that Watson's first impressions of the matter were correct. Opiates render him quiet and excessively philosophical when they do not send him into melancholy or an unnatural sleep. I pointed out as much and added, "Despite it being the first time you had indulged in the drug for anything but medicinal purposes, I would assume the effect was much the same."

Watson shook his head, grimacing. "You needn't lay that sin on Henry's head. I'd tried smoking opium whilst I was still in medical school, though I can't say I truly got into the habit of using either morphine or opium until the siege of Candahar. But it's true enough that the _ouzo_ sent me into a heavy sleep. I didn't wake up next day until Henry and his friends tossed me into the fountain."

I clucked my tongue. "Youthful enthusiasm, I take it? And a sudden bath would have obliterated any evidence, or lack of evidence, which you might recall as to your activities with the lady." It was my turn to shake my head. "Did your uniform ever recover?"

"Not entirely," Watson said. "The dye ran, and I had to replace everything on it which had been white."

"No doubt." I had the beginning of a theory, now, though I would need data to support it. "What profession was your brother pursuing just before he returned to the family fold?"

Watson tipped his head at me, a question in his eyes, but he answered all the same. "Engineer's assistant aboard a merchant ship. He'd lived among the aborigines for a time in Australia, and done some work as a miner, but when he was eighteen he went to sea before the mast and began to work his way up. He was offered a position as third engineer on the same ship, but once he had father's money, he didn't need it."

"Engineer," I said thoughtfully. "That's not bad for a man whose formal education ended at the age of thirteen."

"Henry always was the clever one," Watson said.

Clever, perhaps, but a ship's engineer, however respectable, did not generally rise to the same strata as a man with a doctorate in medicine. Particularly not when the latter had been gifted with several years at a good school while the former had been self-taught. Had Henry Watson been jealous of his younger brother? It might explain much, for there were any number of inconsistencies in the scenario which Watson had accepted as the truth. Some of them, granted, could be resolved on the assumption that Henry Watson was a complete and utter cad. A gentleman, learning of his fiancée's predicament, would have eliminated the possibility of scandal by simply moving the wedding forward, even if he thought the child to be might be his brother's and not his own. Certainly if the family finances were so constrained that my Watson had to choose the Army over establishing a practice, a wedding would have been an easier solution than a purseful of guineas, particularly if the lady in question had been possessed of even a modest dowry. But an all-consuming envy would suit a darker scenario, one in which Henry Watson had done everything in his power to usurp John Watson's place in London as well as within the family.

My eye lit upon the gold watch, still half-hidden in the grass, and I bent to retrieve it. Despite the broken crystal, the steady tick and tiny movements of the hands showed that the mechanism had survived as a testament to the watchmaker. Remembering my earlier examination, I drew out my glass and looked again at the pawnbroker's marks upon the cover. At least two of the marks I knew were definitely from shops in London. That was better than I hoped. I would need to discover a great deal more about Henry Watson, in particular that part of his life which he had not shared with his family, and it would be much easier to do so in London than by travelling to Capetown. But something was not quite right. The London marks were the freshest, even overwriting some of the others, which made no sense if Henry Watson had spent his final years in Africa.

"Watson," I said, turning to my friend. "How did you acquire this?"

"Henry gave it to me as a pledge before he died," Watson said softly. "He came by Baker Street -- it was while you were in France, year before last -- and I lent him twenty pounds." He took the watch from me and listened to the tick for a moment before closing the lid and slipping the watch into his vest pocket with exaggerated attention to the task. "I... I don't actually remember the occasion very well," he confessed. "But you can read the entry in my journal if you like." His eyes closed.

"Not a happy reunion, I take it?"

"No." Watson licked his lips, swallowed, and then steeled himself to continue. "We both drank too much -- fell to recriminations -- came to blows. You never did ask why I'd replaced your large retort."

"I assumed there'd been an accident," I said. Truth to tell, I hadn't noticed the substitution on my return from Lyons, for we'd been drawn first into the Reigate matter, and then into a rapid series of further misadventures. It had only become apparent to me sometime later, and by then a broken bit of glassware, long since replaced, had not been worthy of comment.

He shrugged. "Not exactly. I smashed it over Henry's head just before I kicked him down the stairs and out the door."

Despite Watson's despondency, I found myself fighting a smile. It is not an easy task to set my Watson's temper ablaze, but when it burns, it burns with such intensity that he forgets entirely that he has ever been cast in the role of invalid and takes on the guise of champion. Henry Watson had certainly been dealt the thrashing he deserved. I kept my amusement out of my voice however, as I asked, "And was that the last occasion upon which you ever saw him?"

Watson shook his head. "He turned up ill with pneumonia at the Sick Asylum in Bow*** three weeks later, and when it became clear that he wasn't going to recover, they went through his possessions and found the letters he'd written to Hetty and Anne, mentioning that he'd found me, and where, and naturally I was sent for. He didn't want me, though. Told me to go away and let him die in peace." Watson shrugged, his mouth a-twist. "So I did."

"And the subject of Miss Hathaway never came up between you?"

Watson looked at me then, his left eyebrow quirked high upon his brow. "Holmes, just what do you think we were fighting about?"

"Your inheritance, perhaps?"

"I was disowned, Holmes. There is no inheritance," Watson explained, with a touch of that excess of patience which he employs on the rare occasions when we encounter an area where his expertise surpasses mine. While it generally irks me to be patronised, on this occasion I found myself rejoicing in the knowledge that Watson was sufficiently recovered as to spare me the attention.

"You fought about Helen, then?"

"Yes. Henry said that it was my fault none of his London friends would speak to him since he'd come back from Africa, and that if I'd only done right by Helen everything would be different. I told him that if he'd only put Helen on a packet ship to India instead of handing out purses full of guineas I would have had the _chance_ to do right by her." Watson blushed. "And I believe I accused him of... well, of being the father of his own difficulties."

"And the baby." Another possible scenario, and quite a bit more credible as the idea of John Watson taking advantage of another man's fiancee. I clapped my hands together. "There's nothing else for it then, my dear fellow. I shall have to find the lady, and get her side of the story."

Watson's face betrayed his alarm. "Holmes... I would never dream of asking you..."

"And why not?" I did not have to pretend indignation. "It is my profession, after all." I paced a little, glad to find an outlet for my increasing restlessness as I catechised my unhappy friend. "Not that I have any intention of charging you for my services, of course. But neither have I any intention of standing by and allowing you to continue to berate yourself over the fate of your former fiancee without knowing what that fate actually is."

"But Holmes! For all I know she might be dead!" Watson protested.

" _'For all you know_ '," I said. "And that's the crux of it. You don't know. And being a man of imagination you have spun out every possible catastrophe. But since your brother _did_ give her a pursefull of guineas, then it is equally true that for all you know she is happily married and living in the city of New York."

That thought had clearly never occurred to him. He stared at me, quite out of countenance. "New York?"

"Or Paris. Which is closer, but would require different considerations than America. Did she speak French fluently?"

"No. Her French was terrible. I'm afraid she wasn't much of a scholar." Watson flushed under my amused gaze. "It wasn't for her brains I loved her," he admitted ruefully.

"Ah." I refrained from pointing out that his current choice of wife was unquestionably a vast improvement over that of his younger self. "Well, if she was as beautiful as all that, it improves the chance that she was able to find a protector of some kind."

"I never said she was beautiful, Holmes," he protested without heat, the old light of admiration and curiosity in his eyes at my deduction.

"Of course she was beautiful, Watson," I waved a hand to dismiss any possible objection. "When it comes to the gentler sex I have always ceded you the more discerning eye."

"She had a gentle heart," Watson said wistfully. "And yes, she was beautiful. But easily led. Her mother and father never allowed her so much as a newspaper. I can't imagine that she'd have the least notion how to set out on her own."

"Then she must have had assistance. Is Rebecca Moncrieff still in London?"

"She's Mrs. William Stanley now," Watson said. "And last I heard they had removed to the Fen country."

I nodded and rubbed my hands together. If Rebecca Moncrieff had loved Watson's Helen enough to contrive a dance between the sundered lovers, it was likely that she numbered among the friends whom Helen might have trusted when her condition became apparent. "It's a place to start," I said. "Unless you think that Helen's parents might be willing to assist me?"

"Not if you mention the name 'Watson'," my friend said ruefully. He leaned back and closed his eyes. "Ironic, isn't it? You want to go find Helen because I _might_ have given her a child, and I'm afraid you'll manage it because I'd have to explain to Mary that I _can't_ give her one."

"You'll have to explain that condition to your wife regardless," I pointed out. "If you have evidence to the contrary, it's hardly fair to continue to allow her to think that she must be the one at fault."

Watson paled, and his hand began to tremble again as he passed it over his face. "Oh, good lord. I hadn't thought of it that way."

I sat down beside him on the bench and touched his arm to get his attention. When he looked up at me I did my best to reassure him. "If there is a child, perhaps you and Mary can adopt him. And should that not be possible, there are still many orphaned children who would be glad to have her as a mother, and you as a father."

He nodded, but did not answer, saving all of his strength for the battle not to burst into tears once more. I cursed myself for an idiot. Any good I'd done him by our conversation had been swept away by my injudicious mention of the problem he had yet to solve, and yet I couldn't think of what else I might have said. I cast about for some new distraction, and to my great relief I saw the sergeant whom I had sent for food and brandy coming up the path.

"Ah, and here comes our luncheon," I said, to warn Watson, and he straightened his spine and swallowed his grief as best he could. By the time the man reached us, Watson had managed to bring his face into order, and only the tremor of his hand upon his leg and the pallor of his complexion betrayed his unquiet mind.

"Begging your pardon, sir," the sergeant said to me, as he came to attention before us. "But the barkeep at the Goat and Swan wanted sixpence extra for sake of the bottle and the pie tin and the spoons. I explained as how it was for a gentleman, but he said as how he'd had enough of gentlemen and not enough spoons nor tins, nor bottles either. But 'tis the best brandywine to be had for a bad turn. Leastwise for a military man." He offered the bottle to Watson, and I was struck by an inexplicable jealousy as I was left outside the wordless exchange of understanding between them. What qualities had the sergeant observed about my friend to tell him of Watson's past? I had not forgotten Henry Wood's recent obeisance, so there must be something crucial about a shared military history which was obvious to anyone not a civilian.

And yet why should it matter to me, if that Army connexion meant that Watson had resources to draw upon should he require them? Surely it was an advantage. Look at how readily Sergeant Murray had come to be at Watson's side when he was injured! And I had overcome a similar resentment concerning Mrs. Watson for Watson's sake; he did not deserve to be torn between loyalties. But I could not deny that there were times when I envied my biographer. Such acquaintances as I possessed were, with the single exception of Watson, persons who had a use for me, or I for them. But although he had seemed as friendless as I was myself when first we met (and now, at long last, I knew why!) I had observed the ease with which he had acquired a circle of friends beyond Baker Street.

None of whom he had told what he had just told me.

Obscurely cheered by that observation, I drew my attention to the present and lay my arm across Watson's back, resting a hand on his good shoulder, affecting interest in the bottle from which he had just imbibed. "Is it any good?" I asked.

"See what you think," Watson said, passing the bottle to me suspiciously straight-faced. "But mind your eyebrows."

I took a fair mouthful, and swallowed hastily, unwilling to allow the stuff to linger upon my tongue. The draught made me cough with surprise. "Good heavens!" I exclaimed, for the liquor was as raw and as powerful as any I had ever tasted. "How long has that had a chance to age? Three hours?"

"Perhaps even four," Watson said, taking back the bottle and drinking again. I could feel the tension in his muscles easing beneath my hand, but he was shivering, as if with cold. "Thank you, sergeant. I haven't tasted a nightmare cure like this since I left the Army."

The sergeant looked upon the two of us with an air of paternal tolerance. "Best thing in the world, sir, if you've been sleeping ill, and no offense meant, it looks to me like you have been. But some food under that rotgut won't go amiss. Eat up now, the both of you, and do your bellies a favor. The pie's as fresh as the brandy."

I broke the crust with one of the spoons and tried a bite of the curry filling within. It was, as the aroma had warned me, so highly spiced that I succumbed to a second fit of coughing. I doubted I had the intestinal fortitude to withstand a double assault upon my palate, and said so, much to the amusement of the two veterans of India.

"You'll get used to it after a bite or two," Watson said, taking up his spoon.

I obeyed the implicit instruction and took a second bite. It was worth being the object of friendly derision if it distracted Watson from his cares. And truth to tell, after a few further bites, I did grow accustomed to the taste, although I could feel the blood running high upon my face. The sergeant stood by and amused us both with a convoluted account of just how the proprietor of the Goat and Swan had come to hire a cook from Bangalore. "That pie's famous round these parts, sir," he concluded. "At least with the regiments."

"It's very good," Watson said, tugging at his collar to loosen it a bit.

"Aye, sir," the sergeant said, "Although it does make a man's eyes water, I must say." He offered a handkerchief to Watson. "Won't no one think twice about you needing one of these if you've been eating curry pie."

Watson grew slightly redder, but it was true that the flush from the spices disguised his embarrassment neatly. "An admirable subterfuge," he said, accepting the square of cloth. "Thank you."

"I've et my share of it, now and again," the sergeant said simply. "I was in Lucknow, you see."

"Candahar," Watson answered, one siege survivor to the other. For a moment they both were lost in their thoughts, but then the sergeant took a flask from his pocket to tap against Watson's bottle.

"Here's to being alive," he said. "Ghosts don't haunt the dead."

Watson shuddered, but drank the toast nonetheless. "Will we ever stop dreaming of them?" he asked in a voice gone flat and empty.

"When we do, they'll be forgotten," the sergeant said. "And that will be a sorry day indeed."

Watson nodded, even more lugubrious than before. "Yes. We've a duty to the dead."

I tapped my foot in frustration and then decided to intervene. "And to the living," I said, taking the bottle from Watson. "Your wife will have something to say to me if I return you to her in a state of inebriation." Military solace, it seemed, had disadvantages as well as advantages. And it would do Watson no good at all to have escaped morphine if he succumbed to the same addiction which had claimed his brother. "The pie is indeed an excellent subterfuge, but one which won't work if it isn't evidence. Since we've left sixpence for the tin, the publican cannot object if we take it with us on the train and send a boy up to return it and the spoons in the morning."

"That will cost you more than sixpence," Watson objected, watching the bottle as I pocketed it.

"Perhaps, but it will give the youngest Peterson lad an opportunity to ride on a train without risking arrest for sneaking onto the platform again." I rubbed my hands together at the thought, for it would take two birds with a single stone. "His father wishes him to take up a military career once he is old enough, so a chance to observe life in an Army town would not go amiss. Perhaps you would be so kind as to show him around, Sergeant...?"

"Saunders, sir." The man nearly saluted, but managed to keep his arm in place with only a small twitch, before reaching out to take the coin and card I was offering. "I can arrange to be available, but I can't promise as to time, not yet."

"Send me a telegram at that address when you know," I ordered, taking on my most masterful air. My ears pricked at the sound of a whistle in the distance, and I reached for Watson. "Come along, old fellow. We don't want to chance missing this next train."

Watson, hauled summarily to his feet, floundered for a moment, but found his balance long enough to return Saunders's handkerchief and offer his own card. "Thank you," he said hastily, as I retrieved his walking stick from the grass and pressed it into his hand. "If you are ever in London and find yourself in need of a doctor's care, please do not hesitate to call upon me."

"I will, sir!" Sergeant Saunders did salute then, and Watson might have saluted back, were his hands not occupied with both pie and walking stick. I took my friend by the elbow and began to steer him along the path.

"Holmes," he hissed at me once we were far enough away not to be overheard. "Why are we rushing? You said we had an hour before the next train."

"I said the better part of an hour, and we've used most of it," I replied. "And I wish to ensure that we get a smoking compartment. Preferably one to ourselves." I glanced sideways at him to gauge his reaction when I added, "unless you feel it would be easier to keep your composure in the company of strangers?"

He flinched, but nodded. "That might be for the best," he said reluctantly. "After all, there's hardly any need for us to bring the pie if there's no one to see us eating it."

"It will be harder to talk," I warned him.

"Haven't I already said too much?" he asked, embarrassment rising upon his cheeks.

I stopped long enough to answer him face to face. "Not to me," I vowed. "Never to me." And then I smiled and waved away the emotion which was threatening to overwhelm us both with an excessively theatrical gesture. "After all, I have heard much worse from any number of my clients. And I shall need something to occupy my time, now that the matter of Colonel Barclay's death has been resolved."

He saw through me, of course. But he did his best to smile. "I expect I should be glad of any small problem which keeps you too distracted to indulge in your cocaine," he said, not entirely grimly, before he sobered once again. "But you know I can not hope to pay you for your time. Surely you would be better served by attending to your paying clients?"

"That question postulates the existence of paying clients," I pointed out, and the sound of the train whistle, much closer, saved me any prevarication on the topic. "Come on, Watson! Quickly, now!" I took the pie from his hands and darted for the station, knowing he would follow.

\----

Our trip back was kept entertaining by the presence of a quartet of young soldiers in our compartment, whose notion of the best way to pass the time was to serenade us and each other with music hall tunes. Their harmony was passable, I will concede, but I enjoyed the impromptu concert most for the sake of how it distracted Watson from his thoughts. Still by the time our train reached Waterloo, the strains of the day had compounded with his lack of sleep, and my friend was showing his exhaustion.

It was by then late afternoon, when the crowds at the station were at their thickest, and few cabs were available. A glance at my friend's grey face told me that he was in no condition to brave the Underground, nor to walk very far, although I had no doubt that if called upon to do so, he would make the attempt.

Fortunately, Sir Cadwallader Smythe of the Rivers and Smythe Bank was just climbing down from his private carriage as we left Waterloo station. I leapt upon the opportunity to exchange a promise to investigate the mundane matter of embezzlement he had been pestering me about in exchange for the use of his carriage and driver for the next three weeks while he was away in France. The bargain made, I collected Watson and deposited him onto the cushions of the carriage, and handed him the brandy bottle to pass the time whilst I collected a letter of authorisation from Sir Cadwallader to take to the bank next morning. The driver -- another Henry -- took the change in his instructions phlegmatically. He finished transferring his employer's luggage to the porter's care during the negotiations, and seemed utterly unsurprised when I gave the direction to Paddington instead of Baker Street once we had seen Sir Cadwallader off into the station.

I sank into the cushions beside Watson as the carriage began to move, and my friend opened his eyes to look at me with a query hanging on his eyebrows. "Three weeks, Holmes?" he asked, dryly. The chance to sit quietly had restored some of his energy, and the brandy had restored some of the color to his face, but his bad leg was extended as far as it would go (much farther than possible in either hansom or Underground) as if it were causing him pain.

"The amount of the luggage," I replied simply, finding the carriage rug and tossing it over to him.

"That's not what I meant," Watson said, as he unfolded the rug onto his lap. "Although the deduction did impress your client. But you know his case won't take you that long to resolve, or you wouldn't have been dodging it. Three hours, more like."

"A bit longer," I said. "I do have to _prove_ that it's the head clerk, after all, and he's been with the firm for so many years I expect that there will be more than a little resistance to my conclusion."

"Three days then," Watson amended. "So why on earth did you arrange to keep Sir Cadwallader's carriage for three _weeks_."

"I didn't say I needed it for _his_ investigation," I pointed out. "I'm going to use it for _yours._ "

"What?" Watson ran a hand through his hair. "Holmes, why on earth would you do such a thing?"

"To save myself the trouble of convincing you not to repay me for any cab fares I might incur on your behalf," I explained, and then smiled at him with all the charm within my power. "I shall, of course, suffer mightily. This vehicle being so much more _primitive_ than my usual transport." I gestured airily at the tooled leather seats, the satin pillows, and the isinglass curtains which surrounded us, and Watson's dismayed expression melted into a rueful grin.

"You'll have to feed the driver, you know," he said. "Or Mrs. Turner will, in Mrs. Hudson's absence."

"Then I hope he likes fish!" I exclaimed, my vehemence at the reminder that I was without my usual landlady finally toppling Watson into laughter. When that fit had left him he rested against the cushions, looking out at the people as we passed them, and I did the same. The comfortable silence we shared went unbroken until we neared Watson's home.

Then at last, he spoke, still watching out the window, and his voice was calm, with none of the distress of the day lingering in it. "I should probably try to dissuade you from finding Helen -- except that it would do no good. You can't resist a mystery, and I really want to know what has become of her." He turned his head to look at me then, already drowsy-eyed. "But whether or not you ever find her, I want you to know that I shan't forget this day. I know I've forgotten far too much, but I won't forget this. Even if I have to write all night to make sure of it. How did I ever come to have so good a friend?"

"I've not done anything yet," I protested, my ears warming. Praise from Watson for my accomplishments I can accept with ease, even praise for the parlour trick of reading his thoughts upon his face, but this simple, boundless admiration seemed to me to be rooted in thin air.

"Oh, yes, you have." Watson smiled. "You listened, and you did not judge me." The smile faltered, as he looked toward the house we were approaching. "And you reminded me of my duty. I only hope Mary will be as forgiving of my failures."

I doubted the woman that my friend had married would see a confession that he had loved before her as a failure, and I knew that she had not married him for the prospect of children, but sentimental platitudes would not bring back the curve to his lips. I clapped him on his good shoulder and said, "If she isn't you can always come back to Baker Street until she changes her mind." And then to sweeten the pot, I added, "I think I can find a place to move the newspapers I've stacked on your bed," with a false moue of uncertainty.

That brought a shout of laughter, as I'd hoped it would. He was still smiling as I helped him down from the carriage, and when Mary Watson opened the door she smiled in her turn to see him so happy.

"Ah, there you are!" she exclaimed as she came down to greet us. "And in good time, too. You'll have a chance to wash and rest before your supper." Despite her carefree air, I saw the way she took Watson's arm in my stead and helped him keep his balance as he climbed the steps, and knew that she had observed the signs of his exhaustion and could see that his leg was paining him. It was a reminder, had I needed one, that here was someone whom I could trust to value Watson as highly as I did myself. Her love for him shone in her eyes. "Was it a good mystery?"

"A locked room riddle," Watson told her. "And a long lost love. But no murder at all, as it turned out."

"No desperate criminals?" she asked, mischieviously, her glance going to the kerb, and then to me. "No mad chases in well-sprung carriages?"

"Not this time," I said, bowing my head to her in mock apology. "I'll try to do better on the next occasion."

She laughed. "As long as you bring John home safe and sound," she said, and this time my bow to her was deeper and truer.

"Always, my dear Mrs. Watson. Always."

 

 

 

 

 

*Kipling would not make the mongoose a familiar creature to English readers until 1894, with his story "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi" in "The Jungle Book."

 

** When Leeuwunhoek reported his discovery of spermatazoa to the Royal Society in 1677 he was careful to note that "What I here describe was not obtained by any sinful contrivance, but the observations were made upon the excess with which Nature provided me in my conjugal relations."

*** see http://users.ox.ac.uk/~peter/workhouse/Poplar&StepneySAD/Poplar&StepneySAD.shtml for  
more information.


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